


Five Times Tony Should Have Said I Love You and One Time He Did

by MadScribbler



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Tags Are Fun, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony is an emotional two year old, Whump, but I still love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScribbler/pseuds/MadScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is in love. Tony Stark is emotionally constipated and incapable of actually *saying* those magic little words. Let's hurt him until he does, shall we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Tony Should Have Said I Love You and One Time He Did

Five times Tony didn’t say I love you, and one time he did:

 

**1: The missed call**

Pepper never picked up.

Tony knew that the call was most likely cruel; knew that it would hurt her more than it would help. The call was for his benefit; a bit of comfort as he flew to what he strongly suspected would be his death.

He only wanted to apologize; to speak to the woman he loved one last time and tell her how sorry he was for leaving. He wanted to explain that he was doing this  _for_  her, that he couldn’t let that nuke go off because she might get hurt.

To be honest, he just wanted to hear her voice one last time. He was selfish, and an asshole, and he wanted her voice to be the one that followed him through the portal.

 _Maybe it’s better this way_ , he thought as his HUD fuzzed out in front of his eyes and he began falling through the incredible blackness of space.  _She didn’t have to hear me die_.

 

 

 

**2: Pepper’s Birthday**

 

Tony wandered into what had become the community living area, wiping grease absently on his pants. Natasha was curled up with a book in a chair in a position that would’ve had him calling in the nearest chiropractor. She looked up when he entered and gave him one of her I-know-something-you-don’t smirks.

“What?”

Natasha simply raised her eyebrow a bit higher, smirk widening into something that definitely qualified as evil.

“I’ve been in the lab since yesterday. I swear whatever it was, Clint did it,” Tony was not panicking. Not even a little bit.

Natasha’s other eyebrow inched upward and Tony began backing slowly out of the room, hands held protectively in front of him.

“Well, I’m, um . . . I’m just going to go find Bruce and, um . . . do some sciencey type stuff, in the lab. Downstairs. The one with the really good lock. Um . . . bye!” The last was said over his shoulder as he hurr—walked manfully and purposefully out of the room. Behind him, Natasha’s evil smirk dissolved into a giggle. She put her book down and followed Tony at a discrete distance. This was one blowup she wasn’t about to miss.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

Tony knew Natasha was following him. That woman thrived on trouble and she had been looking at him like he was dinner. It honestly creeped him out. He’d lived with her for a few months now, known her for much longer than that, and all that time had taught him to be wary of the Russian spider. He’d seen her smile like that before when covered in blood and brains. Creepy didn’t really begin to cover it.

He made a beeline for his lab, the only one with a lock that she couldn’t get past—and,  _really_ , why didn’t he have more of those? That needed to be fixed. He’d only gotten halfway there when Clint’s arm shot out of a doorway and snagged him, pulling Tony into the room with him. Tony opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Clint shoved him up against the wall and clapped a callused hand over his mouth.

“Shhhh! She’ll find you!” he hissed into Tony’s ear. He leaned into Tony, pinning him bodily against the wall. Tony licked his hand.

“Ewww! That’s gross!” Clint stepped away, wiping his hand on his pants.

“You’re telling me. When’s the last time you washed that thing?” Tony grimaced. He wiped his own hand across his tongue and immediately regretted it: it was still covered with grease.

“Hey! I’m trying to help you out. She’s on the warpath and you’re about to be dead meat,” Clint whispered. He closed the door and put his ear up against it.

“Natasha? What’d I ever do to her?” That was one woman he didn’t want on his bad side.  Tony put his ear to the door next to Clint. Not that they could hear much, Tony didn’t skimp on building materials; the door was solid oak. “Shit! Did she find out about that YouTube video?”

“No, not Nat. But yeah, you’re in trouble for the video. Pepper. She’s looking for you, man, and boy are you screwed.”

“Pepper? What’s she mad about?”

 _Sir, might I call your attention to the date_? JARVIS’s voice came softly from the ceiling.

“The date? What about it, it’s Wednesday, right?” Now Tony was thoroughly confused.

“Wednesday? It’s Friday, where have you been all week? No, wait, let me guess,” Clint took in Tony’s rumpled, grease stained clothes, red-rimmed eyes and wild hair. “The lab, right?”

“Did you say Friday?” Tony paled.

“Yeah. Hey, whoa, are you OK?” Clint grabbed Tony when he sagged against the door.

“No. No I’m not. I think I need to go update my will.”

 _Ms. Potts’ birthday was yesterday_ , JARVIS helpfully supplied.

“Ouch,” Clint clapped a hand heavily on Tony’s shoulder, nearly knocking the dazed man down. “Tony, it’s been nice knowing you, really. I’ll send flowers to the funeral.”

Tony stared into the distance for a moment with wide, unfocused eyes, contemplating his imminent demise. It wasn’t a pretty picture. He snapped out of his daze suddenly and catapulted into desperate, almost manic energy. He grabbed Clint by the upper arms, pushed him to the middle of the room and pointed to the vent now over their heads. “You have to hide me, quick! You’ve got all kinds of nests in there; you have to hide me in one!”

Clint backed away with his hands raised. “Oh no, no way man. Pepper’d eat me alive and use my bow to pick her teeth.”

“You owe me,” Tony hissed, poking Clint in the chest.

“What? I do not!”

“Last week, when you puked in Natasha’s shoes. She wanted to rip your head off until I bought her a new pair. I saved  _your_  ass, now it’s your turn.”

“I had a concussion!”

“So? She was still pissed.”

“A pissed-of Nat I can handle. A pissed-off Pepper scares the shit out of me. You’re on your own with this one.”

“What! Where’d you get your feathers from? A chicken?”

“A chicken?! Tony, I’m gonna—“

 _Sir? Ms. Potts is approaching the door._  JARVIS broke in urgently.

The two men looked at each other, only now realizing they’d abandoned stealth and had been yelling in each other’s faces. Loudly. Like a scene out of a bad horror movie, both men turned in slow motion to see the door knob jiggle. Clint sidestepped, putting Tony squarely between him and the monster behind the door.

 _“Tony_? _”_  Pepper could be heard faintly through the thick door.  _“Tony, I know you’re in there; open this door. Now!”_

“Don’t worry, I locked it,” Clint stage-whispered from behind Tony.

“The chicken thing? I take it back,” Tony replied, still staring at the door. It was rattling in its frame now. “You’re awesome.”

 _“Tony!”_  Pepper shouted.

“Quick, get the vent open!” Tony reached behind himself, batting at Clint without taking his eyes off of the door and the terrifying woman that was now beating on the other side.

“Chill out! Quit smacking me, I’m trying. Oh shit! It’s stuck!”

“Stuck! What do you mean, stuck!” Tony was approaching full-on meltdown mode. He turned and began beating at Clint in earnest.

“Stuck as in it WON’T FUCKING OPEN!”

 _“Tony, unlock this door right now! I can hear you in there.”_ Pepper banged on the door hard enough to shake the entire wall.

“Open it! Open it! Open it!” Tony’s voice was approaching an octave that Clint was having trouble hearing.

“I’m trying, dammit!”

_“JARVIS. Override the door lock.”_

“Fuck!” Both men froze and turned back to the door when they heard an ominous click.

“JARVIS, don’t open that door!” Tony demanded.

_I am sorry, Sir. I, too, am more frightened of Ms. Potts than of you._

“JARVIS,” Tony began, but stopped when he heard a rattle behind him. He turned just in time to see Clint’s feet disappear into the ceiling. “Clint! I thought it was stuck!”

“It was, now it’s not,” Clint smirked at him through the grating.

“The chicken thing? I take back my take-back, you coward!” Tony hissed, popping Clint the bird.

Clint gave a little finger wave and crawled back a few feet to where the vent widened, settling in beside Natasha. They listened, smiling and trying unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter as Tony was dragged, sputtering, from the room. Pepper’s yelling could be heard long after Tony’s feeble protests faded into the distance.

“Thanks for holding that vent closed. That was hilarious,” Clint bumped gently into Natasha’s shoulder with his own.

“Not a problem,” she smiled. “JARVIS?”

_I am recording the exchange, Ms. Romanov. I will inform you when it is ready to post._

“You putting this on YouTube?” Clint asked.

“I have to teach him not to post videos of me singing karaoke somehow. This was far less bloody than anything else I could think of.”

 

 

 

 

**3: Thor Returns**

The tower was quiet for nearly two months after the Birthday Incident. Steve liked the quiet. Growing up in an orphanage, it had been hard to come by. There was a brief time after the orphanage, when he’d lived all alone in his tiny apartment in Brooklyn . . . but that hadn’t lasted long before he’d finally succeeded in joining the Army. In the Army quiet was even rarer than privacy, especially for the “Golden Boy” Captain America. (He supposed it had been pretty quiet when he was frozen in the ice, but that didn’t really count since he was unconscious, dead, whatever.) Now, with so many larger-than-life superheroes living together quiet was even more unusual than it had been in the Army.

Clint was scarily silent when he wanted to be. He would perch for hours, unmoving, in the darkest (and usually highest) corner of the room. Of course, Clint also got a perverse delight in scaring the living daylights out of Steve, as often as possible. He loved to use his scary ninja skills to hide in plain sight just so he could jump out at Steve and make him yell, drop whatever he was carrying, or—in one particularly embarrassing case—pee his pants. (It was just a little and, in Steve’s defense, he had just finished an eight hour long battle with strange little flying jellyfish . . .   _things_. He hadn’t exactly had time for a bathroom break and was already getting desperate by the time he’d gotten back to the Tower. Clint apologized, but in Steve’s mind the fact that he was giggling and being held in a rather painful-looking head lock by Natasha at the time negated the sincerity of the apology. As did the adult diapers that still mysteriously appeared on his night table from time to time.)

Natasha was just as creepily quiet as Clint; worse, actually. Steve had once spent an entire day lounging about the Tower (OK, lying injured on the couch, waiting for the serum to finish healing him: same thing, in his mind.) without realizing that she had been watching (babysitting) him the whole time. She might not be audibly noisy, but the woman could make herself noticed when she wanted to. She could carry on an entire conversation with just her eyebrows. It was actually rather impressive . . . and intimidating. Especially when she and Clint did it at the breakfast table.

Bruce was pretty good at being unobtrusive, but the Hulk gave the man a  _presence_. Bruce could fill a room while he was trying to hide in the corner. Steve wondered if his habit of hunching in on himself was from a desire to appear inoffensive or if it was an instinctive reaction to the pressure that the Hulk exerted. Nobody else ever remarked on this presence, though, and Steve wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t a figment of his own imagination. But, real or imaginary, Steve always knew when Bruce was in a room. And if someone got the man going on a scientific topic, well . . . Steve’s eyes tried to cross themselves just thinking about it.

Tony was noise personified. His mouth never stayed closed for more than a few seconds at a time; Steve would lay odds that he talked in his sleep. Even when he wasn’t speaking, he made plenty of noise. The man was a compulsive fidgeter. Pencils must be tapped, tablets must be poked at, machinery manipulated . . . and  _the music_. Good God, the man had to realize he was in danger of going deaf. Steve swore that bleeding from the ears was a distinct possibility if he stayed in Tony’s lab for more than ten minutes while the inventor was in one of his frenzies. Even during a battle he couldn’t keep quiet, throwing sarcastic comments and bad jokes around as freely as the Widow threw punches. Director Fury had tried sending him on a stealth assignment with Clint once . . .  _once_. Needless to say, it hadn’t turned out well. Clint still couldn’t stand the sight or smell of oranges, for some reason.

And Thor. Thor was the god of thunder, in every sense of the word. He stormed into every room, bellowed when he spoke and shook the walls when he laughed. He was huge and imposing and took up more space than should be humanly possible. Of course, since he wasn’t human, Steve supposed that made sense. Everything about Thor was noisy, from his speech to his behavior to his giant cape . . . the very air around him crackled with enthusiasm. When Thor was happy, the sun shone with an almost audible exuberance; when he was upset the thunder rattled windows two blocks away.

But right now, right now it was quiet. They’d had a rather disastrous mission nearly a week ago: terrorists had planted bombs around the city and they’d missed one near a park. A lot of innocent civilians had died, most of them children, and Fury thought it best that they all took some down time. Bruce had taken a temporary leave to do some mission work in some unnamed jungle in South America, Clint and Natasha were on some super-secret I-could-tell-you-but-I’d-have-to-kill-you assignment (and Steve thought he had a pretty good idea of where they were, so Fury could just take his precious secrecy and chew on it), Thor was doing his prince thing at home, and Tony . . . well, Tony was sulking. Not the noisy, I-didn’t-get-my-way-and-am-a-giant-man-child-and-so-will-make-everyone-around-me-miserable type of sulking that Tony often indulged in, but an almost scarily subdued brooding that Steve didn’t even think the man capable of. He’d taken the children’s deaths personally, shouldering all of the blame for not finding the last bomb in time. 

Pepper had cooled off a bit since the Birthday Incident, but Tony was still forbidden from entering his lab while she was home, aside from Avenger business, of course. Steve thought that would mean an irritated, bored Tony making everyone in the tower miserable, but he’d actually been on his best behavior. He was attending all of his board meetings, he’d managed to stay awake for most of them, and had even paid attention once or twice. Things between the two--and thus for the entire Tower--were finally starting to get back to normal.

And then Thor returned from Asgard.

Steve was reading in the common room when lightening split the clear blue sky and the thunder god landed on the roof hard enough to shake a few books from the shelves. He could hear Thor calling out greetings long before the god himself appeared, carrying . . . barrels? Yup. Two wooden barrels, roughly the size of small ponies, were slung over Thor’s shoulders.

“Captain! It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of your company! How do you fare this fine evening?”

“Thor, it’s been less than a week since you left. And it’s barely seven in the morning. I’m fine. Can I, um, help you with those?” Steve put down his book and stood, gesturing to the barrels.

“Of course! I have excellent news from the Allfather. I bring two kegs of the best Asguardian ale to share with my friends in celebration!” Thor shrugged one barrel casually off of his shoulder and tossed it to Steve, who staggered and fell on his butt with a grunt under the weight.

“News?” he squeaked from under the sloshing barrel.

“Yes! News most excellent! Where are the rest of our brethren? I am anxious to begin the celebration!”

Steve slithered out from under the container. “Bruce is in South America, Clint and Natasha are on a mission, and Tony and Pepper are getting ready for an early board meeting, I think. What news?”

“Loki has made excellent progress in his rehabilitation. Our father is considering releasing him to my custody. If all goes well, I will be allowed to bring him to Midguard before the next moon so that he may begin making remuneration for his slights against the inhabitants of this realm. Is this not most marvelous news!”

Steve felt his eyes widen and his jaw drop. It had been barely six months since Loki had tried to enslave the entire population of the earth and Odin considered him to be already nearly rehabilitated? He was saved from having to come up with an answer when Tony sauntered into the room.

“Oh I think it’s marvelous news all right, or at least it’s a marvelous reason to drink. And look! You’ve brought something to drink. How remarkably thoughtful of you.”

“Friend Stark! Have you been well during my absence?”

Tony merely grunted as he beelined past Thor for the wet bar in the corner.  Steve thought he was right to be concerned; Tony looked like crap. Losing the civilians--the children--had hit them all hard, but Tony seemed to be taking it harder than the rest of the team. Steve didn’t think he’d stopped drinking since returning from that mission. How he managed to stay upright with so much alcohol in his system was a mystery to Steve, but it was definitely starting to show: the red in his eyes was beginning to clash nicely with the growing black rings underneath them.

“Tony, it’s seven in the morning. Don’t you think it’s a little too early to start drinking?” he asked, sharing a concerned look with Thor.

“Yeah, probably. But technically I never stopped drinking from last night, so I’m not really starting, am I?” Tony tossed back his tumbler of Scotch and eyed the barrel still over Thor’s shoulder speculatively. “Asguardian ale, huh? I’m sure I’ve got something to tap that with lying around here somewhere. Toss it up on the bar.”

“Stark, you do not look well. Perhaps our Captain is correct. We should save the ale for a dinner feast.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony took a long pull from the bottle of alcohol still in his hand and slammed it down before stalking out of the room, mumbling something unrepeatable about meetings that made Steve regret his enhanced hearing.

“That was easy,” he said. “I expected an argument.”

Thor absently stacked both barrels next to the bar, eyeing the door with an uncharacteristically thoughtful look in his eye. “The Man of Iron is still suffering from our last battle together, is he not?”

“Yeah, he seems really broken up about it. Bruce, Natasha, and Clint all pretty much disappeared right afterward and Pepper and I have tried to talk to him about it, but he’s just not opening up to us. Every time we try it seems like he just drinks more and listens less.”

“I fear my summons to Asguard was ill-timed as well. It appears that I have abandoned a friend in his time of need.”

“No, Thor. Tony’s just, being Tony. He’ll come around. Eventually.” Steve clapped a hand to the god’s shoulder, “C’mon. I haven’t had breakfast yet and I’m starving. Care to join me?” Steve led Thor from the room, but he couldn’t stop himself from casting his own speculative glance at the door that Tony had just stormed through.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

“Tony? Do you have your suit on? We need to get to the meeting early. I’ve got some paperwork I need you to sign first,” Pepper’s voice floated to Tony through the bathroom door and washed over him where he lay on the bed, arm over his eyes. He peeked out from under the edge of his elbow when he heard her heels clacking toward him.

“What paperwork? I thought I made you CEO, you get all the paperwork now,” he wasn’t whining, really. He was just . . . tired.

“Yes, Tony, I am the CEO. But your name is still on the letterhead, and the side of the building, and the bottoms of the paychecks, so you still have paperwork to sign.” He could see Pepper’s tight smile around the sleeve of his suit jacket. The one she used when he was being a whiny ass and she had to deal with him instead of doing the five thousand other things that her mornings demanded of her. The one she used when she was starting to lose her patience with him. He heaved a deep sigh and rolled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed . . . and kept right on rolling until he hit the floor.

“Tony!” Pepper shrieked and dropped to her knees beside him. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, head rush. Sorry.”

“Head rush, right,” Pepper snorted. “More like hangover.” Tony offered her his best winsome smile. She put a hand on his cheek and smoothed the other through his hair. “Tony, are you OK? Really?”

“I’m fine, see? Not even a bruise.”

“I’m not talking about falling off of the bed.”

“I know,” Tony pushed up from the floor and paced to the door, stopping with his back to Pepper. He knew what she was asking and he felt a sudden need to not be a part of this conversation.

“The footage was bad, Tony. I couldn’t imagine having been there, having to watch-“

“Having to watch people get blown up, you mean?” he interrupted, suddenly angry. “Children? Yeah, it sucked, but it’s done and over with and I’m tired of indulging you and Steve in this unhealthy obsession to talk about it. It’s over. Drop it. I screwed up, kids died, end of story,” he didn’t realize he’d been yelling until he turned and saw the tears in her eyes. “Pep,” Tony felt himself deflating, undone by a few drops of salt water. “Pep, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“No, Tony. Don’t.” This time it was Pepper who interrupted, holding up her hand as if to physically ward off his angry words. “Just don’t. I’m going to the meeting; you just stay here and get some sleep. I’ll have the paperwork messaged over later.”

“Pepper, I-“

“No,” she said gently, walking over to him and placing a finger against his lips. “I understand. I’ll stop trying to get you to talk about it. But only if you promise to get some sleep and ingest something other than alcohol.” The smile she used on him this time was her I’m-starting-to-unravel smile. The one he saw every time he left for a mission.

Tony hung his head and nodded. He couldn’t bear to look at the pity he knew he would see in her eyes. He didn’t deserve it. He kept his head down until he couldn’t hear her heels any more, then headed resolutely for the kegs of ale waiting by his bar.

**4: Tony welcomes Bruce home, drunk off of his ass and being an ass.**

_WARNING: Mild and short description of violence against children in this one._

_Sir?_

“Not now, J,” Tony downed his third glass of Thor’s ale and filled a fourth.

_Sir, I feel the need to warn you that the alcohol content of that ale is much higher than—_

“I said, not now J. I’m fine. Now leave me alone.”

_But Sir—_

“Mute all.”

Tony downed the fourth glass of ale and contemplated a fifth. The ominous churning in his gut recommended against it, though. He set the empty glass on the bar and headed for the couch. The step down from the bar area to the seating area turned into a stumble, then into something that probably looked like a freshman prom dance move, then he was on his ass on the floor. Maybe J was right, maybe the ale had been a bad idea.

He squeezed his eyes shut and dug the heels of his hands in, then abruptly opened them again when the movie started. The same movie that played every time he closed his eyes. Bodies, flying through the air, none of them more than four feet high and most of them grotesquely incomplete. The sounds that went along with the pictures were ones that he’d never forget, no matter how much he drank. They were drilled into his brain, and the soundtrack ran itself constantly without his consent.

He’d been almost there; just another five seconds and he’d have found the bomb. Three more seconds to reach it, then another two to fly it to the minimum safe distance. Five seconds faster and eight kids would still be alive. The bitch of it was, though, he would have found it in time if he hadn’t stopped between bombs six and seven to check on Pepper.

The sixth bomb had been close to her office, far too close for his comfort. He’d stopped searching, just for a second, to buzz past her window and see her. To see with his own eyes that she was safe. It had added 5.782 seconds to his flight time. He’d done the math. Repeatedly. No matter how he crunched it, though, it didn’t change. He’d needed five seconds more to save those kids and he’d spent almost six to check on his girlfriend instead.

He’d built the first Iron Man suit to save his life and (he’d hoped) Yinsen’s. But of course he’d failed Yinsen, too. That had also only been a matter of seconds. Seconds faster in booting the system up and Yinsen would probably still be alive, seconds faster in flying and those kids would still be alive. Just seconds, but he’d been too busy being selfish. Too busy having a life outside of the superhero gig.

And that was the real bitch of it, wasn’t it? He was trying to be both Iron Man  _and_  Tony Stark, and he just wasn’t strong enough for both.

Tony braced his hands on the floor and pushed himself slowly to his knees. He stopped a moment to watch the room spin lazily around him, then began the long (only six feet, but it looked like a mile) crawl to the couch. Yeah, the ale had definitely been a bad idea. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten and had a vague memory of pancakes, but that had been yesterday, he thought, or maybe the day before. Maybe.

He reached the couch, decided climbing onto it was simply too much effort, and pulled a pillow down. He laid himself on the floor, facing the giant picture window, and wondered how much effort it would take to crawl over the ledge.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

Bruce dropped his bag inside the door and sighed. He stretched, hands in the small of his back, and groaned out loud when he felt every vertebrae pop. He enjoyed the mission work, he really did, but living in Tony’s tower had made him soft and a woven mat on a dirt floor no longer made an adequate bed. That, or he was getting old. He ruffled a hand through his hair, looking in the entryway mirror as he did so. No appreciable increase in grey, so he was totally going to go with the soft living theory.

He kicked the bag to the side, resolving to unpack it later. Much later, after a hot shower and at least six hours of sleep in a nice soft bed. Moving into his room and stripping as he went he called out to JARVIS, but there was no response. That was odd, but not unheard of; Tony had taken him offline a few times before for maintenance and upgrades. Stepping into the shower, Bruce resolved to find and check on the other members of the team after his nap. If nobody knew he was back yet, nobody would wake him up.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

It turned out that he didn’t get quite the nap he’d hoped for after all. His internal clock told him that he’d only been out for about three hours when his name being called dragged him out of sleep.

_Dr. Banner. Dr. Banner, please wake up. Master Stark is in dire need of assistance._

“Wha-? JARVIS? What’s going on?” He was up and decently dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt before he’d finished waking; years of being on the run had made him a light sleeper and a fast starter.

_Master Stark is in the common room. He has ingested far too much alcohol and is now suffering the effects._

“A hangover? He’s had a hangover at least twice a week since I’ve known him,” Bruce was confused, but already on his feet and moving toward the common room

_No. I’m afraid this is more serious than that. Master Stark is unconscious and his heart rate and breathing patterns have begun to slow to dangerous levels. He also appears to have vomited in his sleep._

“What?!” now Bruce was worried, and running.

_Dr. Banner, please hurry._

“Is there anyone else in the Tower?”

_Prince Odinson and Captain Rodgers are in the gym. I have already notified them and they are en route._

Bruce reached the door to the common room and skidded in. At first, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until he rounded the edge of the seating area that he saw Tony stretched out on the floor. He had indeed vomited, but luckily he was on his side and the pillow that he had apparently laid his head on kept him elevated enough that he hadn’t choked. Bruce knelt in front of Tony, careful to keep his bare knees out of the mess, and felt for a pulse. Definitely slow, as was his breathing. His skin was clammy as well, and the blue tinge to his lips indicated cyanosis.

“JARVIS, why didn’t you say something sooner?”

 _Master Stark did not appreciate my objections to his excessive drinking. He muted me_ , the AI’s voice somehow managed to be reproachful and worried at the same time.  _I was only able to override the command when his vitals dropped below an acceptable level. It is a safeguard Ms. Potts encouraged Master Stark to install when she found him unconscious on the floor of his workroom after electrocuting himself._

Bruce snorted a little despite himself. He could picture Pepper ‘encouraging’ Tony after a fright like that. “Where are Thor and Steve now?”

Before the butler could answer, the two men thundered into the room; literally, in Thor’s case. Bruce wasn’t sure what JARVIS had told them, but the god was visibly upset and thunder growled through the steadily darkening sky outside, mirroring his mood.

“Bruce, JARVIS said you were back. What’s wrong? What happened to Tony?” Steve ran around the couch and crouched next to Bruce. His hands hovered over Tony’s inert form, as if he wasn’t sure where to touch or what to do.

“It looks like he’s managed to give himself alcohol poisoning. I need to get him down to medical.”

“I shall carry him there,” Thor’s voice was as subdued as Bruce had ever heard. The two men moved out of his way and Thor gathered Tony into his arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

Bruce kept pace with him to the elevator, his fingers on Tony’s pulse point. The trip to medical was quiet. Bruce was too absorbed in organizing a treatment plan to pay much attention to Steve or Thor. He noticed the guilty looks they were trading but immediately shuffled the knowledge to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

Thor carried Tony into the medical wing and laid him on a bed. Bruce kicked them both out and went to work; the room was not large and neither Steve nor Thor fit very well in a corner.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

 

After he had stabilized Tony Bruce went out into the hall where the other two men waited, pacing. 

“How is he?” Steve asked, stopping in front of him.

Bruce sighed and crossed his arms. “It was definitely alcohol poisoning. I’ve got him on an IV to combat dehydration and I’ve given him Thiamin and Glucose. He’s severely dehydrated and flirting with malnourishment. We’ll need to watch for possible seizures but he should be fine in a day or two. I want to know how it got this far, though.” Bruce tried to keep the accusation out of his face and posture, but by the look on Steve’s face he wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded. 

“Now wait a minute,” Steve said, taking a step forward and violating Bruce’s personal space. “Tony’s a grown man and I’m not responsible for how much he drinks.”

“But you were here and you could have stopped him. You could have hidden the alcohol, or at least make sure he ate something to counteract it.” Bruce clenched his hands into fists, feeling the anger growing in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, but when he opened them the world was still tinted ever so slightly green.

Steve, to his credit, stood his ground, though he did lower his voice to something more suitable to talking down a suicide that for the argument that Bruce desperately wanted to have right now. “I tried. You could have been here to help.”

“I am afraid that we must all shoulder some blame for our friend’s condition,” Thor laid a hand on both men’s shoulders and stepped forward so he was half between them, forcing them both to back up a step. “It is I who brought the ale that he used to poison himself.” Bruce tensed and Thor’s fingers dug into his shoulder a bit in silent reprimand. “Tony feels a great responsibility for our last battle, and I do not think that we— _any_  of us—have treated him as friends should in his time of need.”

Bruce hung his head, guilt and shame flooding through him to replace the anger. He had been ready to blame Steve for Tony’s condition, but it was as much Bruce’s fault as anyone’s. “You’re right, Thor. I shouldn’t have taken off like that; I should have stayed here and tried to talk to him. I’m sorry, Steve,” he apologized to the younger man.

Steve looked down, not meeting Bruce’s eyes. “I probably could have tried harder to get him to talk, too.”

“Well,” Bruce stood straight, brushing his hands together as if to clean them. “What’s done is done, we’ll just have to try harder now. He’ll be sleeping for a few hours yet; I may or may not have slipped him a sedative.”

Steve grinned. “Good. He needs it. I don’t think he’s been sleeping well, if at all, for the past week. Clint and Natasha are due back this afternoon; maybe we should plan a team night in?”

“Good idea. You two go ahead back to the gym, I’m going to sit with Tony for a while.”

Steve and Thor nodded and left, Thor giving Bruce’s shoulder a gentler, friendly squeeze before they did so. Bruce went back into the room and pulled a chair up next to Tony’s bed. The man looked truly awful. His face was pale and decidedly thinner than it had been when Bruce had left and his trademark goatee had degenerated into a scruffy beard. A sudden wave of guilt bowed his head. Steve was right; he’d abandoned a friend. Bruce hadn’t even been there during that mission; he’d been buried under the Other Guy and could only remember snatches of the fighting. If he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t tried very hard to remember. Once he’d stopped fighting the Other Guy and begun to accept him, Bruce realized that he protected him from more than just physical harm. If he tried, he could remember quite a bit of what the Other Guy did and experienced, but if it was bad enough he could very easily leave the memories buried under the green haze.

This one had been horrific enough that he hadn’t even tried. He’d just run, straight to the jungles and away from anything that could hurt. Only this time he’d left friends behind to pick up the pieces that he couldn’t stand to face.

He reached out and squeezed Tony’s hand, resolving to himself to make sure this time he stuck around.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

  

Again Bruce was awakened by his name being called, but this time he was not in his soft, comfortable bed. He raised his head, sitting up and grimacing when his back protested. He blinked blearily for a moment, trying to remember where he was. A rough laugh came from his left. Oh, right, medical.

Tony was sitting up in bed, Starkphone in hand. He was, well, snickering.

“What’s so funny?” Bruce asked, a bit grumpy from the interrupted sleep.

“You. You snore. And drool.”

“I do not!” Bruce wiped a hand across his stubbled jaw. Ew. He tried to wipe his hand surreptitiously against his shorts but Tony’s renewed laughter told him that he’d failed.

“Yup. There was definite drooling going on. And those blanket lines on your face are actually rather fetching, Dr. Banner. I’m sure our fans are going to love the pics.”

Bruce made a grab for the phone, concerned but not surprised when Tony wasn’t quick enough to stop him. He started tapping the screen, deleting the twenty or so pictures that Tony had taken of him sleeping.

“Too late!” Tony stole the phone back from him. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but there’s this remarkable thing called Wi-Fi; it connects to this other really handy thing called the internet. I’m sure you don’t get service in the ass crack of nowhere, but I’ve got excellent signal here.”

Bruce stopped trying to take the phone back and sighed. “Tony, we need to talk.”

“No. No, we really don’t,” the smile disappeared from Tony’s face and he started pulling tape off of the IV line.

“What are you doing?” Bruce pulled his hand away from the tubing. “You still need that. It’s staying in for at least the next twelve hours.”

“I’m leaving. This bed sucks and I’m bored.”

“You can get up, but only if you go to your bed and straight back to sleep. Clint and Natasha should be back in a few hours; Steve wants to order in and watch a movie tonight.” Tony gave him a mutinous look and Bruce reached for a syringe that he had laid strategically near the bed earlier. “Or I could just sedate you into next week and put in a feeding tube.”

Tony’s face dissolved into a pout that absolutely did not affect Bruce. Not at all. He was an adult and Tony’s doctor (sort of) and not subject to such blatant manipulation. He was—oh hell. “Fine,” he sighed at the triumphant smile Tony flashed him. “Couch.”

“Lab?”

“Couch.”

“Kitchen?”

“Couch and TV tray.”

“You, my man, are one hell of a negotiator. Has anyone ever told you that? You want to come to the next board meeting? You could show the sycophants a thing or two about effective negotiation tactics. You can even bring the big needles, for, you know, instructional aids and whatnot.” Tony swung his legs out of bed and stood; Bruce caught him when he sagged and nearly kissed the floor.

He waited patiently for Tony’s blood pressure to stabilize before asking, “Still want to go to the lab?”

Tony cleared his throat. “Nope. Couch, couch sounds good.”

Bruce laughed gently and pushed him back down onto the bed. “Sit, stay. I’ll grab you some pants.” He went to the closet in the corner and pulled out a shirt and sweats, dropping them in Tony’s lap and sitting back down in his chair.

“Why am I only wearing boxers? What happened to my clothes?”

“You vomited all over them,” Bruce raised an eyebrow and fought unsuccessfully to keep the disapproval from his face. Tony had scared him—them—and badly.

“Oh. Well, then,” Tony looked down at the clothes in his lap, unable or unwilling to meet Bruce’s eyes. “Umm . . . a little privacy, maybe?”

“Sure, when you can stand on your own.” Tony glared at him, but there was no heat in it. He was still pale and shaking, he had to feel awful. Bruce felt a little bad for cornering him when he wasn’t able to run away, but according to Steve Tony had been making a very bad habit of running from this conversation.

He watched Tony struggle with the pants for a moment before huffing a sigh and taking them from him. “Here, let me help.” He bent to his knees and held the pants out for Tony to thread his feet into. Keeping his face carefully averted, he began, “Steve says that you won’t talk to him, you won’t talk to Pepper—“

“Stop,” Tony said, grabbing Bruce’s shoulder for balance and squeezing a bit harder than was necessary. “Just stop. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t need to talk about it, I don’t want to fucking think about it. So just stop.”

Bruce stood and met the billionaire’s haunted eyes. “Tony, you know you do need to talk about it,” he held up a hand to forestall the outburst he saw lurking behind Tony’s brown eyes. “But I won’t push. Not right now. I just want you to know that I’m sorrier than I can ever say about leaving like I did, about not seeing how badly this was affecting you. And that when you realize that you have to get it off of your chest, I’ll be here to listen.”

“Fine. Thanks. Can we get moving now?” The response was clipped, closed off. Bruce was disappointed, until he heard the almost inaudibly whispered  _thanks_. He didn’t acknowledge it, taking the fragile overture for what it was; the first tiny crack in the armor that Tony had built up around himself, the armor under whose weight he was slowly being crushed.

He helped Tony to the couch, setting him up with a blanket and an improvised lamp/IV stand. He left for the kitchen to make a late lunch for them both, listening as Tony tried to apologize to an obviously angry JARVIS.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

Clint and Natasha had gotten home and the Avengers were all gathered in the common room around a movie and a mountain of Chinese takeout when Pepper returned late that evening. She walked into the room and was struck by the unnatural quiet. Normally, movie night consisted of arguments about what to watch, which actors were right in the roles and which ones sucked, nitpicking about action scenes and the quality of the special effects, and copious amounts of flying popcorn and the complaints/retaliation of those struck by the fluffy flying missiles. Not tonight. Tonight the lights were dimmed and the only sound was coming from the screen.

Steve sat in the armchair closest to the door, posture straight as always, with a nearly untouched bowl of buttered popcorn in his lap. She leaned a hip against the edge of his chair and took off her heels, stealing a handful of popcorn and returning his quiet hello. Clint and Natasha were curled together on the couch next to Steve’s chair. They appeared to be completely engrossed in the movie, but she had felt their attention focus on her the moment she had stepped in. Living with highly trained assassins tended to teach one to notice those things. Thor sat in the floor in front of them, trying to watch her covertly and failing miserably. She could see Bruce’s head over the back of the remaining couch, but Tony was nowhere to be found. Until she moved further into the room, that is.

She leaned over the back of the other couch to find Tony laid out opposite Bruce, his feet in the other man’s lap. He was fast asleep, and at first Pepper smiled to see him so relaxed. Then she saw the IV.

She had felt Bruce tense as soon as she leaned over the couch, and when her eyes fell on the IV she heard Steve sliding quietly out of the room. She turned to look behind her and found that Clint and Natasha had left without her hearing. Thor was still sitting on the floor, giving her a deer-in-the-headlights look. She turned around to find Bruce looking at her apprehensively and felt her mouth stretch into what Tony had labeled her ‘DEFCON 4’ smile.

“Bruce,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately soft, “welcome home. Could you please explain to me why Tony has an IV?”

“Umm . . . ,” he slid to the extreme opposite of the couch and out of reach, dumping Tony’s feet gently from his lap. Tony didn’t stir. “He may have, possibly, drank a little bit too much?”

“Elaborate, please.” She heard Thor escape and Bruce darted a quick glare at the doorway before sighing and slumping.

“I got back late this morning. I sort of snuck in; I was hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before anyone knew I was here.” He took off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his shirt, a nervous tic that she had seen him use often. “JARVIS didn’t answer me, but I figured Tony was just running some upgrades. I went to bed and woke a few hours later to JARVIS telling me that Tony was passed out in the common room.”

“And,” she prompted, feeling her temper fray.

“Alcohol poisoning,” Bruce looked up at her gasp and placed a hand over hers, giving it a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we caught it in time. He’ll be fine. Provided, that is, we can get him to stop drinking so much and to eat some actual food,” he gestured at the mostly full plate on the tray next to Tony’s head with his free hand. “I’m so sorry, Pepper. I should have stayed here and helped him through this. I’m not used to having people that need me.”

“No,” Pepper sighed and squeezed Bruce’s hand back, “you are not to blame for this. I’ve been feeling so guilty for not being able to help him and so has Steve, but we’re not to blame for it, either. We can only support Tony so much. At some point he’s going to have to learn to help himself.”

“You know that this is a problem, right?” Bruce asked softly.

“Yes,” she crossed to the front of the couch and sat between Bruce and Tony’s feet, leaning against Bruce when he put an arm around her. “I know. He was doing so well, though. He’d cut back on the drinking and was actually eating more meals that he skipped. It’s just, this last mission . . . . He hasn’t been this bad since Afghanistan. He won’t tell me what’s wrong, Bruce. I mean, I know that watching that, the kids, not being able to stop it . . . ,” she trailed off and buried her face in Bruce’s shoulder, trying to hide the tears that she couldn’t seem to stop.

He tightened his arm, squeezing her in a half hug. “Tony is one of the strongest people I know, but he leads a very highly stressful life. We can be—we are—here for him, but we have got to get him to realize that. We have to get him to talk about what’s bothering him or he’ll just keep trying to drink it away. I am sorry for leaving so abruptly, for leaving you and Steve alone to try and get him to open up. But I’m here now, and Thor, Clint, and Natasha are back, and we’re none of us going anywhere until we get him to open up.”

“Thanks,” she raised her head and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to just lie down with him for a while now.”

“Sure,” Bruce stood, draping a blanket over her shoulders before leaving.

Pepper moved the tray away from Tony’s head and lay down on the couch, squeezing herself between Tony and the cushions and covering them both with the blanket.

“JARVIS, mute the television for me, please.”

_Of course, Ms. Potts._

She didn’t know how long she laid there, stroking a finger along Tony’s rough jaw, watching him sleep in the flickering light from the screen. The movie had long since ended and she’d almost fallen asleep herself when he finally stirred. He turned his head toward her, pressing their foreheads together before opening tired brown eyes.

“Good evening, Mr. Stark,” she said, kissing him softly on the lips.

“Mmmm,” he blinked lazily at her. 

“Did you have a nice nap?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat and turned his body so they were lying face to face. “When did you get home?”

“I don’t know, an hour or so ago.” She hesitated. Lying here together was so nice, and he’d been so distant lately, that she didn’t want to bring up what Bruce had told her, didn’t want to break the spell. She took a deep breath; this had to be done. “Bruce told me what happened today.”

Tony stiffened and pulled away from her, moving to the very edge of the couch. She tightened her arms around him before he could completely escape.

“Tony, please, this is killing you. Why won’t you just talk to me about it?”

He rolled to his back and began removing the IV tape. “Pep, I . . . I just can’t. I can’t tell you. Can we please just leave it at that?”

“I would, Tony, I really would, if it weren’t obviously affecting you so badly. I know that there will be parts of your life that I’ll never understand and never be a part of,” she placed a finger on his lips when he turned to argue. “No, I know it, and I accept it. I’m so proud of you, but it makes me a wreck worrying about you. I can’t stand by and ignore this. You’re making yourself sick over it Tony. I can’t ignore that.”

Tony dropped the IV line and sat, finger clamped over the hole left in the back of his hand. Pepper sat up behind him and draped herself across his back, still warm from sleep. She wrapped her arms around him and held on while he shook. He wasn’t crying, not exactly, but he wasn’t far from it.

Finally, with a sigh, he gently removed her hands and stood. Without turning, he said goodnight and left the room. Pepper stayed where she was, the tears that he hadn’t shed running down her face.

When she had composed herself, she went to join Tony in bed, hoping that things would be better in the morning. She found him, not in their bed but in a guest room. The door was locked. She knocked, but at a polite request from JARVIS she turned and left.

That night she cried herself to sleep in their shared bed. Alone.

 

 

 

**5: _The_  fight:**

Tony didn’t get up until nearly ten the next morning. He lay in the king sized bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and trying to convince his brain cells to function. His whole body ached, his brain felt about three sizes too big for his skull, and his stomach was still churning. Also, something nasty had gone and died in his mouth.

_Good morning, Sir. The time is 9:43 am. Dr. Banner has requested that you meet him in the kitchen, shall I tell him that you are awake?_

“No, J. I’m not hungry; don’t tell anyone I’m up yet.”

_Sir, you really should—_

“Don’t make me mute you again,” Tony snapped, then immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry, J. I’m just not in a very companionable mood this morning. I need some time to wake up before I have to face everybody.”

He didn’t know how he could do it without a physical body, but Tony could  _feel_  the cold shoulder that his butler turned toward him. “JARVIS, don’t be like that. I’m sorry that I muted you yesterday, OK? I think I’ve apologized more to you in the last two minutes than I have to anyone else, like, ever. That should tell you how sincere I am.”

_Of course, Sir._

Ouch. That hurt. That tone alone could give an Eskimo goosebumps. Tony sighed and dragged himself out of bed and to the shower. “I promise I’ll eat, OK? Real food, not just coffee.”

_Thank you, Sir._

Yeah, he was still mad.  _That’s all right,_  he though bitterly as he stepped under the hot spray,  _he can join the club. Everybody hates me right now, and I don’t blame them. Even I hate me right now._

The harsh thoughts followed him out of the shower and all the way down to his lab. He just wanted to hide; from his team, from Pepper, from himself. No such luck, though. Clint was in the lab, sitting in Tony’s hot rod and playing Twisted Metal on the pull down screen.

“What the hell? Why do I bother locking this door if you’re just going to wander in here any time you feel like it?” he crossed the room and plucked the controller from Clint’s hands, smirking when Warthog crushed Club Kid.

“Hey! I was winning!”

“You would pick the wussy car,” Tony chucked the controller into the back seat and went to his main workbench, settling onto the cushioned stool with a sigh. He really felt like crap.

Clint stood and stretched. “Don’t get comfortable, Iron Ass. JARVIS told us you were up; Bruce sent me here to drag you up to the kitchen.”

“JARVIS?” Tony raised an eyebrow to the ceiling.

 _I did no such thing, Sir. I merely suggested that Agent Barton might enjoy his game more in your lab._ The butler’s tone was smug.

“You know, I don’t remember programming you to be such a sneaky smart ass.”

_I learned from the best, Sir._

Tony rolled his eyes, but didn’t offer any resistance when Clint pulled him up and out the door.

They didn’t talk on their way to the kitchen, and Tony appreciated that. Lately every conversation had consisted of someone trying to get him to talk about the playground bomb and Tony telling them to fuck off. He was damn tired of it. Every mention of that fight made the screams that still rang in his ears just that much louder, the red mist that hung behind his vision just a little bit thicker. He just wanted to be done with it; to forget about that day completely and pretend it never happened.

He had to admit though—only to himself, of course—that no matter how hard he tried to shove the memory and guilt into the iron vault in the back of his mind marked ‘Do Not Enter’ it just wouldn’t fit. He couldn’t close the door on it no matter how much he drank. Alcohol had quieted the screams, but hadn’t quite silenced them.

The rest of the team was gathered in the kitchen when he and Clint got there. Steve was at the counter, filling four industrial sized waffle makers with batter from a giant mixing bowl. Thor, leaning on the wall by the door with a plate in hand, immediately turned his most pathetic puppy eyes in Tony’s direction and he cringed. Before Thor could do much more than open his mouth, though, Natasha slipped in front of him. The wince from Thor made Tony’s toes ache. Her boots sported impressively high heels and she hadn’t exactly been subtle about stomping on the big man’s foot. She gave Tony a tumbler of OJ and a scarily sweet smile before slinking around the table to sit in front of a bowl of fruit. He raised his eyebrow at her and she pointed to Bruce, who mimed drinking while glaring at him.

Tony rolled his eyes, but sat in an empty seat and took a sip. His stomach rolled uncertainly. He wasn’t sure if he was nauseous or just really hungry, so he set the glass down and just watched his team—the word  _family_  tried to sneak into his thoughts and he shoved it firmly back down.

Clint settled into the chair next to Natasha, grabbing a waffle and pouring an obscene amount of chocolate syrup on it.

“Your teeth are going to rot out of your head one of these days. You know that, right?” Tony asked the archer, picking up his fork and poking at the waffle that Steve slid in front of him.

Clint plopped an enormous spoonful of whipped cream onto the sugar bomb and took a gigantic bite. “It’w be wrf it,” he said through the food.

“You’re disgusting,” Natasha elbowed him and moved her bowl out of spray range. Clint just smiled, swallowed, and took a bigger bite.

Bruce sat next to Tony and pushed the plate a little closer him. He dipped a knife into the butter and began spreading it on Tony’s waffle for him. That was just too much. 

“I’m not helpless, you know,” he grumbled, stealing the knife from Bruce and stabbing at the glob of butter.

“Could have fooled me,” Bruce answered mildly.

Tony opened his mouth, a wonderful insult on the tip of his tongue. It died there when Pepper walked in.

The waffle suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world. He concentrated on spreading the butter just right, filling every cup evenly, while listened to the clacking of her heels as she crossed the room to the fridge and pulled a carton of juice out. He heard her move to the cabinet, the clink of a glass, and the glug of liquid pouring. There were no other sounds in the room; if he couldn’t see Bruce’s chest moving from the corner of his eye he’d’ve sworn that everyone had even stopped breathing.

Steve broke the quiet, “Good morning Ms. Potts. Would you care for a waffle?”

“Pepper, Steve, and no thank you.” Tony could hear the brittleness in her voice. She clicked her way over to the counter nearest his seat. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

“Tony, I need you to sign these. Now, please,” she asked carefully, setting a pile of papers on the counter. It didn’t escape his notice that she was very careful to come no closer than she had to.

“I’ll sign them later,” he told his waffle.

“You were supposed to have signed them for me yesterday,” she pointed out. She was using that neutral tone that he hadn’t heard her for years. The one that she used to use when she was his new and untried assistant and didn’t dare call him out on his childish (and often idiotic) behavior.

Tony sighed and lifted his head. He wished he hadn’t. She was an artist with makeup, but she hadn’t quite managed to hide the circles under her eyes or the red that rimmed them. Tony had put those there. It was his fault that she’d probably spent more time crying last night than sleeping. He stood and took her in his arms, suddenly on the verge of tears himself.

“Oh, Pep. I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair. She hugged him back, squeezing tightly just once, then let go and stepped back.

“Please just sign them so I can go,” she wouldn’t look at him.

He heard everyone else file from the room, leaving just the two of them and the miles of space between. He took a step toward her and she took a matching one back. He started to raise his hand to touch her cheek, then stopped when she turned away from that, too.

“What? Why are you—?” He couldn’t seem to get a complete sentence to make it from his brain to his mouth.

“I just need to not be here, right now. I need some space, I think. I need . . . I need these signed and I need to leave.”

“Leave?” The word echoed hollowly in his ears.

“Yes,” she took a deep breath. “I need to get out of the Tower, I’ve got work to do and Happy’s waiting to drive me to the office.”

He walked in a carefully wide circle around her and made for the cabinet above the stove, suddenly beyond thirsty for something other than orange juice. Pepper watched him pull a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. The desperately sad look disappeared from her face with the appearance of the bottle.

“No,” she said, clicking her way to him and plucking the bottle from his hand. “You’re not even recovered from yesterday yet and you’re going to drink more?!” The carefully neutrality was gone from her voice, replaced with irritation.

He snatched the bottle back and stepped out of arm’s reach. “I’m not a child, Pepper. I can drink whatever the hell I want,” he kept his voice pitched low, trying to keep the anger that suddenly blossomed in his gut out of his tone.

“You almost died yesterday!” she didn’t make any attempt to keep her voice down. “God, Tony! Why can’t you take just a little bit of responsibility for your health?!”

Tony snapped. He’d been trying so hard to protect her; he’d killed eight kids because he was so concerned with her safety. He hadn’t told her what had happened because he didn’t want her to feel an ounce of the guilt that was slowly crushing him. And she couldn’t just let him have a few drinks? Just a little bit of alcohol to numb the pain that was ripping him to shreds?

“Responsibility?” he yelled, savoring the anger as it poured from his mouth. “You want me to be responsible? I’m fucking Iron Man! I’ve saved the entire world, what, five times now?”

“Tony! Stop, please. Whatever’s wrong, whatever you’re thinking; I just want to help you. Why won’t you talk to me about this?”

“Oh, you want to talk? Fine, let’s talk,” he said, feeling suddenly (and irrationally, a small part of his mind screamed) spiteful. If she really wanted this conversation, he’d give it to her. Every last damn detail.

“Let’s talk about Katy, Gwen, Thomas, Stephanie, Ellen, Samantha, Morgan, and Justin. Let’s talk about the kids that died; let’s talk about why they had to die,” he narrowed his eyes and glared at her, wanting her to suffer as much as he had been. “They died because of you. They fucking died because I took the time to stop and check on you.”

She gasped and put a hand over her mouth. “What? I don’t understand.”

“Why?” he poured the scotch into a glass. “You’re not stupid. I stopped to check on you and was too late to get to the bomb that killed them. That’s not very hard to understand.”

She took a deep breath and visibly locked the knowledge away to be dealt with later. “Thank you for finally telling me,” her voice was boardroom polite and so very distant. “I’m leaving for work now and we will talk more about this when I return.” She took a few steps to the door, then stopped and turned partially back to him. There was a little more feeling in her voice, but she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—look at him. “Please promise me that you won’t drink today. It’s really not healthy.”

“Not healthy?” he was incredulous. He’d just told her what she’d been hounding him about for over a week; he’d just told her that she was part of the reason he’d killed eight kids, and she was worried about what was healthy for him? He had children’s blood on his hands, who cared about healthy?

“No,” he said, “what’s not healthy is poking Bruce with sharp objects. What’s not healthy is getting between Thor and an all-you-can-eat buffet,” he moved around the island and toward Pepper, suddenly and completely beyond pissed. “What’s not healthy is being a goddamned superhero so I can keep  _you_  safe. What’s not healthy is watching a playground blow up because I wasn’t fast enough, because I stopped to check on you!” He screamed the last at her, almost in her face. Close enough to see the hurt fill her eyes and her face crumple.

“Tony,” she whispered. “My God, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . . you shouldn’t be.” He deflated, shoulders slumping, and moved back to the island, away from Pepper. The anger was gone as suddenly as it had appeared and now he was just tired. He spoke with his back still toward her, “I should. It was my fault. I didn’t—I just couldn’t . . . .” Tony trailed off and reached across the island to pick up his glass. He swirled it, put it to his lips, then set it down again without taking a drink. His throat felt tight and his eyes burned.

“Tony—“ Pepper crossed to him hesitantly. He flinched when she touched his shoulder and she backed off. He didn’t want comfort, didn’t deserve pity.

He spoke into the glass in front of him; if he looked at Pepper, if he saw the pity he knew would be all over her face right now, he’d come undone. He’d tried to keep it from her, tried not to tell anyone why he was too late to the playground, but now it was out. Now she knew how big of a disaster he really was.

“I was scared, Pep. That last bomb was so close to you. I just—I had to check on you. I was right there, right fucking there. But if I hadn’t, if I’d done my fucking job and gone after the next bomb like I should have I’d’ve gotten there in time. I’d’ve saved those kids. I would actually be a hero and not a giant fucking failure.” He put the glass to his lips and drained it.

“Tony, that’s just being human. You can’t blame yourself for actually having a heart.”

“The parents of those kids sure as hell do,” he picked up the scotch and filled the glass again.

“Tony,” Pepper sighed, sounding defeated. She went to the table and sat down, hiding her face in her hands. He had to strain to hear her next words. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Wait, what? Can’t do what anymore, what do you mean?” the scotch and orange juice in his stomach suddenly turned to ice.

Pepper sighed again and lifted her head. “This, Tony. I can’t be your babysitter anymore. I love you, I really do, but I just can’t watch you destroy yourself over something that wasn’t your fault. I can’t be here for you if you won’t let me. I can’t—I just can’t, Tony. Not anymore.”

For perhaps the first time in his life Tony was rendered completely speechless. His tongue turned to cotton and glued itself to the roof of his mouth; no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t make it work. He could only watch, numb and helpless, as the woman he loved stood and walked to the door.

“I’ll send for my things tomorrow, Tony. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Tony’s heart pounded with each click of her heels as she walked away. He wanted to chase after her, grab her in his arms and tell her just how much she meant to him, how sorry he was, but his knees had turned to jelly and he couldn’t seem to remember how to walk. He stood there, frozen with the glass halfway to his mouth, and stared at the door long after the sound of her heels had faded away.

He didn’t snap out of his trance until JARVIS said quietly,  _Sir_?

Tony had to cough a few times before he could make his voice work, “Yeah?” He blinked his burning eyes few times, but didn’t look away from the door.

 _I am sorry, Sir, but Director Fury is on the line_.

“Take a message.”

 _I’m terribly sorry Sir, but it appears to be urgent_ , the AI sounded truly regretful.

“I don’t care if his goddamned eye patch is on fire, take a fucking message!” Tony shouted, turning and throwing the glass across the room. The heavy-bottomed tumbler shattered against the backsplash and sent shards of glass and drops of scotch across the stove. His brain finally reconnected with his legs and he started for the door. “I’ve got a girlfriend to apologize to.”

_He’s calling for the Avengers, Sir._

**_A/N_ ** _: I don’t know why, but for some reason in my head Clint is a perpetual five year old._

 

 

**+1: Finally....**

It was the bomber again. The same one from a few weeks ago; the one that killed nearly a dozen people and then had somehow given them the slip. Clint cursed under his breath as he adjusted his quiver, settling it more comfortably against his back. Since Fury’s call that morning three bombs had gone off—each thankfully in unpopulated areas—and they were still no closer to finding this asshole 

He seemed to delight in taunting them; leaving a clue at the site of each bombing, provoking them, challenging them to find the next bomb before it went off. So far they’d found five in time and three too late. Nobody had died this time, though. Yet. Clint knew it would only be a matter of time, though. They would slip up on a clue, or the sicko would get bored, and someone would die. Maybe a lot of someones.

Now they were reduced to following the clues like some giant freaking game. They had Bruce in a Quinjet, trying to find a signature or trace or something that they could track, but this guy was some kind of expert. Each bomb was different; so far the only similarity that they could find was that they all went boom.

“I’ve got it,” Natasha’s voice came over the comm. “Fifth and Tucker, defused.”

“Good job,” Steve replied, then asked with a sigh, “what’s the next clue?”

“That . . . that might be a problem,” she answered.

“What do you mean, ‘a problem’?” Tony’s voice snarled in his ear and Clint winced. Poor guy was not taking this well.

“I mean there’s no clue.”

“What?! What do you mean there’s no fucking clue? This piece of sh—“

“Enough,” Steve cut Tony off. Clint could actually hear the frown in his voice. “Regroup at the Quinjet.”

A chorus of confirmations echoed over the line and Clint pulled a grapple from his belt, seating it on the ledge next to him and swinging down to street level. It only took him a few minutes to meet up with the others, but by the time he got there Tony and Steve were in the middle of an argument. Tony had his faceplate up and stood toe-to-toe with the supersoldier, screaming in his face. Clint could see the muscles bunching in Steve’s jaw from across the street as he ground his teeth. Finally, Steve’d had enough.

“Look,” Steve pushed Tony back a step. He was only an inch or so taller than Tony, and a few inches shorter than Iron Man, but when he drew himself up and put on his Captain face he seemed to tower over the other man. “I understand that you want this guy, we all do. I know you’re taking this personally, and I’m sorry, but you weren’t the only one there. We all were. We could have found that last bomb just as easily as you could have. It’s time you pull yourself together and get your head into the game. The guy’s here somewhere, and we need to work together to find him before more innocent civilians get hurt.”

Tony’s faceplate dropped down and he took another step back. “Fine,” Iron Man’s voice echoed hollowly, and damn, Clint had forgotten just how intimidating that mask could be. “If that’s the way you want to play this.” And he was gone, blasting into the sky and out of sight over the buildings.

“Well, that went well,” Clint snarked, trying to break the tension. Natasha’s eye roll and Steve’s glare told him in no uncertain terms that he’d failed.

“Clint, Natasha, go back to the last bomb and look around, see if there’s anything that might be a clue. Thor, take the sky. Look for anything unusual. If you find anything, and I mean anything, tell Bruce and let him check it out remotely. Do  **not** approach. I don’t want to test just how immortal you are or aren’t.”

Thor nodded, swung his hammer, and took to the skies without further comment. Natasha, though, wasn’t about to let Steve off that easily.

“Missed?” she asked, raising one of those perfect and perfectly dangerous eyebrows. Steve flushed a bit, but nodded firmly in her direction.

“We have to be sure,” he said.

“I don’t like this,” Clint said. “This prick’s leading us around like puppets on strings. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing right into his hands.”

“Same here,” Steve shook his head and looked to where Tony had disappeared. “Same here.”

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

Tony flew above the city, scanning the buildings and scowling to himself. On one level he knew Steve was right. They  _could_  have found the bomb in time, but he had been closest. He had been the one who had stopped looking. No matter how many times he ran the hamster wheel of would-have, could-have, should-have in his mind, it all came down to the fact that he was the one who fucked up. He could make it right, though. Nothing could bring those kids back, but he could find this asshole and make damn sure he’d never hurt anyone again.

He turned around and did another lap around the area where the bombs had been set, then stopped and hovered over the site of the last one. Natasha and Clint were scouting around in widening circles, searching for the clue that should have been there. They weren’t going to find it, Tony suddenly realized; they didn’t have the right perspective.

He could have slapped himself; the clue was right there and so stupidly simple. It was an arrow. When he factored in all of the bombs that the asshole had set off—today’s and the ones from before—they formed a crude arrow. And it pointed straight at Pepper’s office.

His blood running suddenly cold, he took off for her building at top speed.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

“Captain,” Clint commed, watching Tony disappear in a red streak across the sky. “Stark was here. He hovered over us for a moment then took off. 

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Not a word.”

“Follow him,” Steve responded. “Bruce, can you track him?”

JARVIS answered and Clint felt a chill run down his spine.  _Master Stark is presently in Ms. Potts’ office. The building is being evacuated, but Ms. Potts is currently being held by what appears to be an unstable man wearing quite a bit of explosive material. Please hurry._

They were running before JARVIS had finished speaking. Clint and Natasha sprinted around the corner to the Quinjet to find Steve already there. They rose into the air and headed across the city.

They had just settled on the street in front of the building, Thor landing with a thump on the sidewalk next to them when the roof burst outward and Tony flew out. He rocketed into the sky, clutching a screaming man in one hand. Clint scrambled out of the jet and looked up, shading his eyes with one hand.

“Stark, what’s going on? Talk to us, dammit,” Steve barked.

Tony didn’t answer. Clint squinted and could just see Tony drop the man he’d been carrying. He fell only a few feet before exploding. The blast caught Tony full in the chest and threw him violently backward and down.

Thor began to swing his hammer, and a brief look of alarm flashed across Bruce’s rapidly greening face, but there wasn’t time. Tony slammed into the side of a building before they could stop him. The building crumbled in on itself, burying their friend under a few tons of concrete and rubble.

Clint ran to the building and began shifting through the debris, throwing rocks frantically to the side and calling for Tony. He could vaguely hear Pepper screaming and sobbing, Hulk roaring and crashing through the rubble, Steve shouting orders, but that all seemed too distant to focus on.  _TonyTonyTonybeallrightyoustupidshit_ ran through his mind and there was nothing but that and the feel of the wreckage under his hands as he dug.

The world didn’t snap back into focus until Natasha pulled him away from the hole that he’d dug and shook him. “We found him,” she said, pointing to where a nude and shaky Bruce knelt beside the mangled red suit.

Tony lay crumpled in the bottom of a Hulk-sized hole in the midst of the wreckage. The suit was a little scorched, but didn’t appear damaged. If, that was, you didn’t count the giant piece of rebar jutting from the stomach. It looked like the metal bar had found a seam in the abdomen of Tony’s armor and simply punched all the way through.  

Bruce hit the emergency switches and the suit opened to reveal the unconscious and extremely pale billionaire. Thor pulled off his cape and handed it to Bruce, who immediately wrapped it around the wound in Tony’s stomach and pressed down, hard. Tony didn’t even flinch.

“Thor,” Steve said quietly, “keep Pepper away, don’t let her see this.” Thor nodded and went to intercept the hysterical woman climbing barefoot over the rubble toward them, tears running down her face. He tried to turn her away but she fought him. He finally had to pick her up and carry her to the Quinjet where Natasha was already coordinating the medical team.

Clint went to kneel next to Bruce and grimaced when his knee landed in blood.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Do you have anything that can cut through this bar? It’ll need to be removed surgically.”

Clint grimaced. “Yeah, but it’s going to vibrate and hurt like hell.”

The look Bruce gave him was bleak. “I know,” he said. “I don’t see another choice. This is bad, Clint. If we don’t get him to a hospital soon . . . .” he trailed off, looking over his shoulder to where Thor still held a sobbing Pepper.

“Right,” Clint looked up to Steve and motioned him closer, calling Natasha over as he did so. “Hold him down,” he said. “I’ll do this as fast as I can, but it’s going to take a few seconds.”

“How long?” Steve asked, sitting astride Tony’s legs and bracing his hands on the injured man’s hips.

“Two seconds, maybe three.” Clint pushed buttons on his bow until he found the arrowhead he wanted. It was designed to drill through titanium, but only at speed. He’d never tried it out from a stationary position.

He pulled the arrow and nodded to each of them. “Ready?”

They all returned his nod, Bruce now draped across Tony’s chest and Natasha leaning with all her weight on his shoulders. Clint lowered himself to his stomach beside Tony and pawed at the rubble until he could work his arm underneath the heavy suit.

“Here goes.” He activated the arrow and the effect was instantaneous. Tony’s eyes popped open and he screamed, trying to arch away from the pain. Steve, Natasha, and Bruce struggled keep him still. Clint grit his teeth and cut through the bar as fast as he could, but the seconds seemed to take hours. By the time it was done there was sweat dripping down Clint’s face . . . or at least, that’s what he told himself it was.

He sat up, shoving the arrow back into his quiver and wiping his face with the back of one filthy arm. Natasha was holding one of Tony’s wrists, her finger over the pulse point, but her other hand was stroking rhythmically through his hair and she’d lowered her head to whisper into his ear. Tony was breathing in short gasps, his eyes glazed and rolling sightlessly.

Clint heard sirens, an ambulance and several SHEILD vehicles screeched up, and paramedics swarmed them. They shoved in between Clint and Tony, pushing him back and away from his friend. He landed on his ass in the rubble, his hands still tingling with the vibration and his ears still ringing with Tony’s screams.

Things happened quickly after that. Tony was lifted onto a stretcher—Thor and Steve helping the medics with the weight of the suit—and whisked into an ambulance and away, Bruce’s hands still clamped around the rebar in his stomach. Clint watched them go, then went to the nearest SUV, yanked the junior agent unceremoniously out of the driver’s seat, and pulled it over to where Pepper and the rest of the team were left clustered near the edge of the wreckage.

“Get in,” he barked. Pepper climbed into the front, leaving Natasha, Steve, and Thor to squeeze together in the back seat. Clint sped off before they had the doors shut.

The hospital was a media circus. He had no idea how the parasites had found them so fast—though he supposed the giant explosion in the sky and collapsing building might have been a clue. He drove around the back to avoid the crowds, leaving the SUV parked haphazardly in a loading zone. Natasha helped a shaky Pepper climb out and they marched into the hospital together.

Bruce met them in the waiting room outside the ER, wearing scrubs and clutching a bag filled with Thor’s blood-soaked cape. He looked lost and very, very small.

“Bruce,” Pepper whispered. “Is he—“

“They’re still working on him,” Bruce cut her off quickly. “The bar pierced his stomach and nicked his spleen, but they think he’s going to be OK.” Bruce lifted a hand to Pepper’s shoulder, but dropped it quickly when she flinched away from the blood that still covered his hands and arms. Steve stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She crumpled into him.

Clint motioned to the others and they stepped a few feet away from the terrified woman. He leaned in close to Bruce, whispering so she couldn’t hear him.

“Is he really going to make it?” he asked.

Bruce nodded. “His chances are good. He’s lost a lot of blood, but we got him out and to a hospital fast enough. I think. The suit largely protected him from other injuries. He’ll be in surgery for a few hours, at least, but so far it’s looking good.”

“Perhaps the two of you should take this opportunity to clean yourselves.” Thor nodded in Pepper’s direction, “Your appearance seems to further disturb the lady Pepper.”

Clint looked down and noticed the blood that soaked his front. He’d knelt and lain in Tony’s blood and hadn’t realized how much there’d been until Thor pointed it out. He took a set of scrubs offered by a passing orderly and followed Bruce to the bathroom. It wasn’t until he started washing the blood off that the shaking started.

 

/*\\_/*\\_/*\

 

First there was pain. A miserable, grinding, shrieking pain that tore through him and turned the world to white, then to black.

After that came a sort of grey fog that he floated in, comfortably, aimlessly. He got the feeling that there should have been pain, but it wasn’t there. Occasionally voices floated through the fog, and he got the feeling that there should have been meaning to them, but that wasn’t there either. 

Eventually he realized that he wasn’t floating aimlessly in the fog after all; he was tethered, anchored, a balloon bobbing around in circles. There was a warm hand somewhere in the fog, slender fingers that held him down, kept him from floating away completely. And a voice, one that he heard far more often than the others, one that made him want to pay attention, made him want to understand. He began to turn to that voice, to aim his wandering toward the warmth of that hand.

There was pain, though, floating in the fog with him. He caught snatches of it when he got too close to the voice. The ache of abused muscles left too long unmoving, sharper pricks that he recognized as slashes and stitches, long lightning flashes of broken bone. He circled around the voice and the hand, wanting to go closer but not quite ready to brave the pain.

The hand never left, though, and after a time his curiosity lent him bravery. He inched closer, feeling his way through and between the eddies of pain, and found more than just the voice and the hand. There were memories there, too, of soft strawberry hair— _not strawberries, she’s allergic_ —and dancing blue eyes. He drifted closer, enduring the increasing pain, too enthralled by the memories to notice. A giant stuffed rabbit danced before his eyes— _the rabbit’s too big_ —and dissolved suddenly in a shower of explosions and chaos.

He flinched from that image, from the pain that followed it and tore into and through him, screaming down limbs made solid by memory and pain, settling deep into a body that had formed around him when he’d been distracted. For a time he was overwhelmed, the reality of the pain so much worse than the ghost of it in the fog. He floated now in a different kind of fog, a red haze made of misery and fear. The hand was still there, though, the slender strong fingers holding him, anchoring him, pulling him safely through the haze and back to himself.

He gained back bits and pieces at a time, legs that refused to move, arms that ached and throbbed, an overriding sense of fear and failure that he shied away from. The hand, though, never left him. It was joined occasionally by others, strong and callused, that provided him another point of reference in the red waste.

He held onto those anchors, onto the strong hand in his and the voice by his ear. He settled gradually back into his body, casting off the grey fog and the red haze in favor of solid—if broken—flesh. He explored himself gradually, gingerly, testing muscles and nerves as he went, circling steadily through himself and back to the hand, back to the fingers woven through his own.

He concentrated on those fingers and squeezed, once. The voices that had been humming quietly through the haze grew excited, loud, and he flinched away from them. The hand squeezed his back, though, and the voice that he’d followed through the fog came back, cutting through the others and guiding him, encouraging him. He followed it again, found his eyes, and opened them. The soft strawberry hair and dancing blue eyes were there; soft lips found his own and showed him where his mouth was.

With his mouth came words, ones that he should have said often and long ago.

“I love you.”


End file.
